Child of Promises
by pellaz
Summary: Sigurd gives Bart a history lesson, and ends up making and receiving a promise. Spoilers for Sigurd's identity.


Child of Promises   
  
A Xenogears Fanfic   
  
  
  
"Hey, Sig?"   
  
Sigurd stilled his hands for a moment before going back to combing through the young master's hair. Still wet from the shower, it was relatively easy to clear it of tangles, but he still had to be gentle--Bart's hair was very thick. "Yes, young master?" he asked, tugging through a particularly stubborn knot.   
  
"How long are we gonna be livin' out in the desert like this?" Bart craned his neck a little to look at his guardian, brow furrowing a bit when Sigurd didn't give an immediate response.   
  
Here it was, Sigurd thought wearily, the inevitable question. He'd wondered how he would answer it when Bart finally did ask it... but he'd never been able to think of an answer, and he couldn't think of one now, either, not one that would adequately satisfy a ten-year-old's curiosity. "Well...." he said slowly. "That depends, young master."   
  
"On what?" Bart asked, frowning a little.   
  
"On how quickly you become a king worthy of the crown," Sigurd said, and patted his damp head. "When you are ready, young master, and only then, will we take back the throne from Shakhan. All right?"   
  
Bart sat still, processing this, his small face scrunching up with thought. "Well...." he finally said, "how do we know when I'm ready? What if I'm never ready?"   
  
Sigurd smiled. "We'll know, young master. It will be quite apparent. Now sit up, so I can braid your hair."   
  
Grumbling good-naturedly, Bart scrambled into a sitting position, presenting his back to Sigurd with a kind of trust that still took Sigurd's breath away--after the coup d'etat four years ago, he had been sure Bart would never again trust anyone. But he had underestimated the resilience of the human spirit; it had been only months before Bart had opened him to up and Maison, bonded with them, and stopped having screaming nightmares. Sigurd ran his hands through Bart's hair, then gathered it into three sections and began twisting them together. "You're going to be a wonderful king someday, young master," he murmured.   
  
"Like my father?" Bart asked softly.   
  
Sigurd nodded. "Just like your father. People will look at you and say, 'Why, look at that young King Bartholomew; his father would be so proud of him.'"   
  
"Would he be proud of me, Sig?"   
  
"Of course he would," Sigurd said. He tied off the braid and patted Bart's back. "He was and always will be. Now, don't you have lessons with Maison in a few minutes?"   
  
Bart bounced up and faced him, pulling an elaborate face. "Aw, Sig, whadda I care about the history of Aveh for, huh?" he complained. "It's boring! I'd rather be out scouting!"   
  
"I'm sure, young master." Sigurd sighed. "But don't you find learning about your ancestry at least a little bit interesting? You come from a line of distinguished soldiers and kings, you know, young master."   
  
Bart perked up a little. "Like Roni Fatima, right?"   
  
"Right," Sigurd nodded. "That's pretty cool, isn't it? He piloted the Gear that the Fatima family has protected for generations since." He put his hand on Bart's shoulder and led him out of the room toward the tea room, where Maison was waiting. "It must be a magnificent Gear."   
  
"What Gear was that?" Bart asked, dragging his feet a little.   
  
Sigurd pulled him forward. "What, Maison hasn't told you yet? Its name was Andvari, and it was one of the most advanced Gears ever. Piloting it, Roni Fatima defeated every enemy in sight, and established the Fatima dynasty." He tweaked Bart's nose, grinning when the younger boy glared at him. "Maybe someday you'll be like him, hmm?"   
  
"Yeah!" Bart's eyes lit up, and he bounced a few steps until he was ahead of Sigurd. "I'll beat up lots of Gears and everyone'll know my name!"   
  
"Young master, everyone knows your name now," Sigurd said affectionately. "Now, into the tea room. Maison is waiting."   
  
Bart deflated. "Awwww... Sig, can't you teach me more about Roni Fatima?" he pleaded. "Maison just said that he was in a big war and that he founded the country. Big deal! You sound like you know more about him."   
  
"Well," Sigurd demurred, hiding his smile, "I *do* admire him very much. And I *have* studied him...."   
  
"C'mon, Sig, c'mon! Tell me more! Was Andvari really big?" Bart put his hands on his hips and scowled, looking every bit the disguntled monarch. "You're just bein' mean, now."   
  
"Yes, yes, I am." Sigurd shook his head. "All right, young master, you win. I'll tell you more about Roni Fatima--but only if you promise to be very nice the rest of the day and to eat all your vegetables at dinner time. And no pigging out on sweets beforehand, either."   
  
Bart rolled his eyes. "All right, all right. I'll eat my vegetables and I won't pig out before dinner. Now, tell me more!"   
  
Sigurd opened the door to the tea room and called, "Maison? Do you mind if I borrow the young master for a while?"   
  
Maison set down the cups he was drying and smiled. "Of course, Master Sigurd. Whatever you wish is fine." To Bart, he said sternly, "Now you behave yourself, young master."   
  
Bart gave him the thumbs-up sign and, when the older man had turned back to his work, a particularly wicked look.   
  
Sigurd cleared his throat and tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes. "Shall we go to your room, young master?"   
  
"Yeah." Bart hurried in front of him, nearly dancing as he went; Sigurd followed at a more sedate pace, marveling at the boundless enthusiasm the young master always exuded. It was funny, really; so much energy in such a small package. Before the attack Bart hadn't been so wild; but now, here, he seemed free to let loose. Sigurd wasn't sure if that was good or not.   
  
He sighed as Bart whipped around a corner, out of his view. "Young master, would you slow down?" He paused, then shook his head ruefully. *I am turning into such a prude. Jessie would be ashamed if he saw me.*   
  
"Sig!" Bart shouted, poking his head around the corner. He hopped in place, impatiently, and let out an exasperated little puff of air. "C'mon, you're so slow! How'd you get so slow?"   
  
"It's a little thing called 'age', young master," Sigurd said wearily, catching up with him. "You are a bit too energetic for me."   
  
Bart snorted. "Yeah, whatever." But, to his credit, he slowed down, staying only a few steps in front of Sigurd this time. When they got to his room, however, he apparently decided that it was every man for himself--he bounded past Sigurd and nearly threw himself into his bedroom, yelling at Sigurd to hurry. Sigurd followed him into the room, closed the door behind them, and sat down at the young master's desk, surveying the room with a sigh.   
  
"Young master, this room is a *mess*."   
  
Bart looked around innocently. "Really? It doesn't look that bad to me."   
  
Sigurd picked up a bowl that was lying on the desk and raised an eyebrow. "Is this mold I see in this bowl?"   
  
"Uh..." Bart snatched it from him. "It was a science project. Heh, heh." He laughed weakly and shoved it under his bed.   
  
Sigurd decided not to ask what *else* what was under the bed; he'd leave that to Maison. "All right," he said. "You wanted to know about Roni Fatima, right?"   
  
Bart nodded eagerly. "Yeah, and his big Gear."   
  
"His huge Gear," Sigurd corrected, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.   
  
"His humongous Gear?"   
  
"Right." Sigurd grinned. "So, what do you want to know about this Gear?"   
  
Bart pursed his lips. "What'd it look like?"   
  
"Well...." Sigurd assumed a thoughtful expression, then snapped his fingers as if an idea had suddenly struck him. "Ah! You know that Gear the mechanics are fixing up for you?"   
  
"Yeah!" Bart sat on the bed across from him, hands dropping on his knees and eyes lighting up like the sun on a bright desert morning. "Brigandier! Did it look like Brig?"   
  
"Just like it," confirmed Sigurd. "It was big and red and very, very powerful. You know those patrol Gears they have out in the desert now? Well, I bet it could destroy one of those in one shot."   
  
"Wow." Bart fisted his hands. "If I had a Gear like that," he said wistfully, "I could beat Shakhan easy, couldn't I?"   
  
Sigurd reached out and touched his shoulder, feeling the heat of the desert rising off the little boy's skin. "You can beat him with Brigandier," he said gently. "And with our support. You will have many backing you when the time comes, young master. But now is not the time. You are a little boy, and you need to learn how to be a king before you can try and beat Shakhan. Anyway... about Andvari... you wanna know what happened to it?"   
  
Bart nodded, the far-away look in his eyes vanishing. "Did something bad happen?"   
  
"Kind of." Sigurd smiled and leaned back in his seat. "You see, Roni Fatima cared very much for his Gear, and after the Nisan War was over he wanted to make sure no one would use Andvari for evil purposes. So, he sealed Andvari up in a special fortress, and some say that whenever a Fatima is in trouble, Andvari will help them. That's because the will of Roni Fatima--his love for his descendants, like you, young master--is still very strong in it. No one knows where Andvari is--that's one of the best-guarded secrets of the Fatima family."   
  
"The secret Shakhan wanted, right?" Bart asked. He frowned. "Well, if Roni Fatima didn't want Andvari to be used for bad again, why didn't he just destroy it? Seems to me it woulda saved us a whole lotta trouble."   
  
"It does seem that way, doesn't it," Sigurd agreed gravely. "But you'll understand when you first pilot Brigandier someday, young master. A Gear's power is not something to be taken lightly--to be used up and thrown away. You must always respect your Gear, because *it* is lending its power to *you*."   
  
"You talk like a Gear's a real person, Sig," Bart said, looking skeptical.   
  
"Well, perhaps it is. You never know." Sigurd smiled and ruffled Bart's hair. "Is that enough history for you, young master?" he said teasingly. "Shall I send you back to Maison now?"   
  
"Awww, no, Sig!" Bart turned shimmery eyes on him. "Tell me more about somethin'!"   
  
"About what?" Sigurd said, laughing. "You will have to go back to your lessons sometime, young master. You're only procrastinating."   
  
"What's that mean?"   
  
"Never mind." Sigurd stood up. "Come along now, you really should be studying. But at least you know a little more about your history now." He sighed. "It is rather hard to educate you in these circumstances."   
  
"Hey," Bart said brightly, "I'm learnin' how to beat people up! That's the best education ever!"   
  
Sigurd put his head in his hands and groaned. "Don't let me hear you speaking that way again, young master," he said wearily. "It makes me feel as if all my work has been in vain. Now, are you coming, or should I pick you up and carry you?"   
  
"I'm not six anymore," Bart said, standing up. He walked to the door, then paused before it could open and looked back at Sigurd. "Hey, Sig...." he said hesitantly. "That was kinda cool. Do you think you could tell me more about--I dunno, some more things you've studied later on? When I'm bored?"   
  
Sigurd smiled. "I would be privileged, young master. Go on, now."   
  
Bart nodded, grinned, and ducked out the door. Sigurd listened to the patter of his feet until they were long gone; then he turned around, looking at Bart's room.   
  
"It is certainly very hard to raise a prince while he is a pirate," he murmured aloud, tapping his chin. He smiled and closed his eyes. "But I should have known that a Fatima is a prince by matter of birth, not by the manner in which he is raised."   
  
He got to his knees and looked under the bed; hastily, he stood back up, wiping at his watering eyes. "I think I shall leave that to Maison," he said, coughing a little.   
  
But something under the bed made him think; it hadn't caught his eye when he'd been under there, but now that he thought about it... was it... a picture? Frowning, Sigurd pinched his nose shut and went back under the bed again, fishing around for the feel of a photograph. Sure enough, his fingers skimmed the edges of a picture frame. Sigurd pulled it out from under the bed into the light and squinted at it, wiping his fingers over the thick layer of dust that had settled on it.   
  
His eyes moistened again, but not from any smells, as he found himself staring down at the smiling faces of the king and queen of Aveh. Little Bart--three or four years old, from Sigurd's reckoning--was sitting on his mother's lap and beaming up at the cameraman, his pudgy cheeks fat with good health and his eyes shining with happiness. No matter how cheerful the young master seemed nowadays, Sigurd could never hope to see that look in his eyes again--that look of a child content with his lot in life, and confident of his position in his parents' hearts.   
  
Sigurd sat cross-legged on the floor and examined the picture closer. It wasn't even a very good picture, really--the light source was off just a tad, and Edbart's face was just a little bit blurry--   
  
Edbart.   
  
The sight of that face made Sigurd still, and he understood why Bart had kept this picture--why he had probably ducked back into his room to get it during the coup d'etat. *My god,* he thought dazedly, *I'd almost forgotten what his face looked like.*   
  
Many things could be blamed for that--the long years spent in Solaris, his disoriented state after he'd arrived at the castle, the years since the attack--but none of them could make the guilty stinging in his eyes lessen, or make the tight feeling in his gut go away. He had forgotten the face of his own king--of his own--father.   
  
What if he died? What if tomorrow, he took a chance fall and ended up breaking his neck? Or getting his stomach sliced open? Or was captured by Shakhan's men? Without a picture, would Bart end up forgetting *his* face? He could die without the young master even knowing how much he'd given up, how much he would continue to give up for him. Without Bart even knowing how closely they were related. So many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to teach him.   
  
The soft whooshing of the door made Sigurd turn around and start guiltily; Bart had stopped in front of him, eyes fixed to the picture Sigurd held in his hands. There was a long pause.   
  
"Sometimes," Bart said softly, his voice cutting the silence in between them like a knife, "I forget what Mom and Dad look like. That really scares me, Sig."   
  
Automatically, almost a reflex by now to the pain in that small voice, Sigurd held out his arms. Bart went into them, wrapping his arms around Sigurd's shoulders and burying his face in the crook of Sigurd's neck. Sigurd held him tightly and closed his eyes, stroking Bart's soft, still-damp hair. The picture lay on his lap, forgotten.   
  
Bart's voice was choked. "I just wanna see them one more time. I miss Mom--I know I sound like a baby, but I miss her holding me at night and singing to me...."   
  
"You do not sound like a baby, young master," Sigurd whispered.   
  
"And I miss Dad," Bart continued. "I miss--I miss everything about Dad. He was so cool, and he was so great, and I can't ever live up to him, Sig, I just can't. I'm so afraid."   
  
"Shh, young master. No one is expecting you to. You don't have to be afraid."   
  
"And most of all--" Bart's arms tightened around him. "I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and everyone will be gone. I dream about it, Sig, I wake up and I'm all--alone, and I cry and scream but no one comes. I don't want it to be real. Sig--I'm afraid Margie and Maison and everybody on the Ygg'll leave me."   
  
Sigurd ran one hand over Bart's shoulders, soothingly, stroking the thick blond hair with his other hand. "No one is leaving, young master. Never ever. You don't have to worry."   
  
"I'm afraid--" Bart took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sig," he whispered. "I'll die if you leave me. Please say you'll always be with me."   
  
Sigurd closed his eyes, remembering a promise much like that, between a dying woman and a little boy. "I promise," he said. "I'll never leave, young master. Where would I go? An old guy like me?" He patted Bart's shoulder. "Now," he said seriously, "if I'm making promises of this proportion, you have to make one to me, all right, young master?"   
  
Bart sniffed and leaned away from him, looking into his eyes. He looked suspicious. "What?"   
  
"You must promise me that you will never forget your... your family," Sigurd said. He clenched his hands around Bart's shirt. "That is the best promise you can ever make me, young master."   
  
Bart leaned into Sigurd again. "That's easy, Sig. I'm never gonna forget Mom and Dad." He sighed tremulously. "Sig," he said, hesitatingly. "Can I... can I sleep with you tonight? I had a really bad dream last night...."   
  
Sigurd stroked his hair again, and smiled. "Of course you may, young master. Just try not to kick me in the head," he added, gently teasing.   
  
Bart punched his shoulder. "Aw, be quiet. You're such a baby sometimes."   
  
"Oh, yes," Sigurd nodded, "I strike fear into the hearts of every desert-dweller, but the truth is I am really just a huge baby."   
  
Bart laughed. "Too bad you can't thump your pegleg on the floor, for sound effects."   
  
"Are you mocking me, young master?" Sigurd sighed dramatically. "I never get any respect around here."   
  
He could feel the negative emotions in Bart dissolving, replaced by his normal golden-tinged warmth. Sigurd smiled and stood up, hefting Bart up with him and ignoring his protests. "Ah, and here is the fearful captain of the pirate ship," he said, inserting a particularly uncivilized-sounding tribal accent into his voice. "Little does everyone know, he is actually a midget."   
  
"Aw, shut up." Bart was choking on his laughter. "What about you? Lose the crop-top, Sig, it's not very threatening."   
  
"Oh, I don't know...." Sigurd peered down at his exposed midriff thoughtfully. "It certainly can be distracting."   
  
Bart made a face. "You wish. Let me down, if I'm the fearful captain, already!" He kicked lightly.   
  
"The fearful *midget* captain," Sigurd countered. His eyes twinkled. "I'm actually the man behind the scenes, don't you know?"   
  
Bart snorted. "Oh, whatever. We'd all be dead if that were true. The fearful midget captain handles all."   
  
"Ah, that is merely what the beautiful man in the crop top wishes you to believe," Sigurd said solemnly. "But the truth is, he is the king of the world, and you shall all bow to him someday. Even--" He pinched Bart's cheek, laughing when Bart sputtered indignantly. "--The fearful midget captain."   
  
"If you were the king of the world," Bart said, managing to sound thoughtful, "wouldn't we all be wearing purple and crop-tops?"   
  
"I believe in individuality. You can choose your own color of crop top."   
  
"You're scaring me, Sig," Bart cried. "I don't wanna wear a crop top."   
  
"Oh, but young master, just think of how much more loyal your loyal subjects would become if you did," Sigurd said, smirking.   
  
Bart squirmed. "You sayin' they're not loyal enough to me?" he growled, reaching for a handful of Sigurd's hair.   
  
Sigurd winced away, still wearing a smirk. "I didn't--Ouch!--say that, young master. It's just that you're so cute everyone wants to see more of you." He flipped Bart over his back and set him on his feet. "You're much too young for this kind of talk," he said, cuffing Bart lightly for the hair-pull. "Whatever happened to lessons with Maison? Hmm?"   
  
"He told me to spend the rest of the day doin' whatever I wanted," Bart shrugged.   
  
Sigurd grinned. "Don't quite know what to do with yourself, do you, young master?"   
  
Bart scratched the back of his head. "Maybe I can eat a lot."   
  
Sigurd laughed full-throatedly at that and shook his head. "I have a better idea. How about we go and see how Brigandier is coming along?"   
  
"Yeah? Ohhh, yeah!" Bart pumped his fists in the air and did a little dance around Sigurd. "You're so awesome today, Sig! Let's go!" He rushed out the door, barely giving it enough time to open before he disappeared from sight.   
  
Bemusedly, Sigurd stared after him. "Does that mean I'm not awesome every day?" he wondered, and smiled ruefully. "Ah, well. Children will be children."   
  
He picked up the photograph that lay on the floor, giving it one final look-over. Then he gently slid it back under the young master's bed and went out the door himself, shutting the lights off behind him. 


End file.
